Wicked

Since then he had kept sufficiently busy, setting up an office and hiring an eager young clerk to man it while he eased himself back into the upper echelon’s social world. Wyn Blackhawk’s family had smoothed over the ripples his last appearance among the Nob Hill set had caused—again a reward for the small part he’d played in saving her life. In fact, the welcome he received in the best homes now was so effusive Deegan frequently wondered if anyone in town recalled that he was the same cad who’d brazenly tampered with the affections of two of the city’s young heiresses.

Deegan had become such a part of the upper crust’s world that no one had questioned the origin of the generous contribution he had made to the emperor’s funeral fund when the collection was taken up the day before at the Pacific Club.

Not bad for a boy who had once sung in saloons for his dinner, or lifted patrons’ wallets if the coins thrown on stage hadn’t added up to the amount he thought his performance deserved.

Of course, no one knew of his larcenous beginnings; they were a carefully guarded secret. Only one other person remembered those days, and she had too much to lose if the knowledge became known.

And yet, as much as Deegan had longed for the leisured life he now led, he wasn’t satisfied with it. Despite the number of invitations he received regularly, despite his popularity with both men and women among San Francisco’s wealthy, something seemed to be missing in his life.

It had taken him awhile to identify what it was, and he had been stunned at the answer: he missed the danger of his old life. Damned if he’d ever thought to miss that! But after years of living on adrenaline, endeavoring to outwit the devil himself, Deegan was finding respectability extremely tedious.

Across the way the mourners continued to shuffle past Norton’s coffin. There were so many wreaths and bouquets that the lid was nearly eclipsed in blossoms. San Franciscans had been viewing the emperor’s remains since seven that morning, and still the line of visitors seemed unchanged. Thousands, it seemed, would miss the old man.

Rather than join the sedate crowd in paying his respects, Deegan remained where he was. Norton’s funeral had dampened his normally high spirits, something very few things had managed to do in his thirty-one years. If he crossed the thoroughfare to the funeral parlor, his spirits would no doubt sink to such a level he would end the day trying to recover his savoir faire at the mercy of a local barkeeper’s tap.

“ ’Scuse me,” a man mumbled as he sidestepped a fresh batch of mourners and brushed against Deegan.

Although he hadn’t felt the lift, Deegan knew from experience that his wallet had been eased from his jacket. Surreptitiously he checked his vest pocket. Sure enough, his watch was missing as well.

The lifter was a small fellow who was dressed quietly, his dark suit and starched collar not so ill fitting as to make him noticeable, his bowler set straight rather than cocked over his thinning hair. Although Deegan hadn’t seen Charlie Wooton in nearly fifteen years, he found the pickpocket little changed.

A reckless smile curved the corners of Deegan’s mouth. It seemed that salvation, in the form of Wooton, had come to him. Rather than cry thief, Deegan eased into the crowd, doggedly following the pickpocket as the man maneuvered profitably through the mass of mourners.

Wooton put a number of city blocks between himself and his unknowing victims before entering a corner grocer’s shop and, with a brief nod to the proprietor, slid among the shoppers to the curtained-off back room. Deegan closed the distance between them until he was nearly on his old friend’s heels when the man brushed the curtain aside.

“I thought there was honor among thieves,” he murmured, catching Wooton’s arm, detaining him.

The pickpocket turned as if honestly puzzled to be so accosted. His stance was deceptive, his calm facade masking the fact that he was coiled for action, whether verbal or physical. “Beg yer pard—” he began, then broke off, a wide smile of recognition stretching his mobile face. “Damn! If it ain’t Digger O’Rourke. What in blazes ’er you doin’ in this neighborhood?”

Deegan didn’t relax his hold on Wooton’s arm or mention that he answered to a different name now. “Following you, my lad,” he answered smoothly, his voice colored with the hint of an Irish brogue.

“Me?” The pickpocket’s brow furrowed. “What the hell for?”

“The same reason anyone would follow you, Charlie. I want my wallet back. And my watch,” Deegan added.

Wooton’s face assumed an expression of innocence. “Lost ’em? Damn, Dig, that’s too bad.”

Rather than be offended by his old friend’s act, Deegan grinned and brushed at the lapels of Wooton’s suit jacket. “A real shame,” he admitted, helping himself to the contents of the man’s inner pocket. He flashed a particularly fat wallet before the thief’s eyes. “Hmm. Quite a haul today.”

Wooton tried to snatch the wallet from Deegan’s hand.

Galloway held it just out of the smaller man’s reach. “My goods, if you please, b’hoy,” he said.

The pickpocket glanced quickly around the grocer’s to see if they were being observed. “All right,” he snarled, “but in private. Not out here where a copper might see.”

Wooton pushed the curtain aside. Deegan gestured for him to enter first, using the wallet to give the direction. Once the curtain had swished back in place behind them, Wooton began emptying his pockets on the top of a rickety-looking table. Soon he had created a pile of wallets and watches.

“Help yourself,” he urged as he slumped sullenly in a straight-backed chair.

Deegan tossed him the hefty wallet and reclaimed his own possessions from the horde. “You know, if you’d look a mark in the face occasionally you wouldn’t make the mistake of lifting from an old friend.”

Wooton shook his head. “Hell, you know that makes ’em too aware of you, Dig. Trusty and me taught you that when you were nothin’ but a slick fingered kid. Damned if I would have recognized you with those side-whiskers if you hadn’t said something to me.”

It was a lie, but one Deegan was willing to overlook. Even with his lush, tawny sideburns and luxuriant mustache serving as camouflage, he was little changed from the boy he’d been. Taller and more hardened, but still cursed with features that were far too memorable for a man following Wooton’s profession. Which was part of the reason Deegan had given up lifting wallets for a living. At least it was the reason he’d given his old associates.

And speaking of old associates…

“Have you seen Hannah lately?” Deegan asked.

Busy emptying the contents of the various wallets into his own pockets, Wooton didn’t look up. “Not in a while. Did you know she got out of the mattress trade? Claims she managed to save up enough to retire, but there ain’t a whore alive can manage that unless it’s one of the madams. I think Hannah’s found some mark to keep her. But she ain’t moved outta the Coast.”

Which she could with the money he’d sent her, Deegan knew.

“Maybe old Trusty left her something,” Wooton said. “He was always sweet on her.”

Deegan’s jaw stiffened. Trusty O’Rourke, the man who had been his mentor, the man who had passed as his “da.” Deegan remembered only too well that Trusty had drunk away every dollar either Hannah or he had managed to make.

Wooton clicked open one particularly ornate pocket watch and grinned. “Would you look at this,” he said with appreciation. “You never know what kind of trinkets you’ll cull in a proper, God-fearing crowd.” He reset the timepiece so that the tiny tin cutout couple went into randy mechanical action.

As Wooton gloated over the erotic toy, Deegan strolled over to the grimy window and flicked the faded gingham curtain aside to peer out, before glancing back at the pickpocket. “Is she still in the same rooms?” he asked.

“Who? Oh, Hannah? Sure.” His peep show over, Wooton snapped the watch closed and slipped the timepiece into his vest pocket, obviously intending to keep this bit of booty for himself rather than turn it over to his fence. “Not many of the old gang around anymore,” Wooton mused. “Those a bullet or the coppers ain’t got, the crimpers swept up. Did a hitch to Honolulu meself when things got hot after Trusty kicked it. You weren’t around then, were you, Dig?”

Deegan turned back to the window. “No.” Although Wooton’s tone clearly indicated he was curious about the intervening years, Deegan wasn’t about to satisfy that curiosity.

“Hannah’d like to see you, I’ll bet,” Wooton said. “Looks like you did all right for yourself. She’d be proud.”

Would she be? Deegan wondered. More likely she’d be angry with him for disappearing, for sending her money when he had it but never letting her know how he was or where he was. She’d be particularly furious to learn he had spent considerable time in San Francisco over the past year without bothering to contact her.

He doubted Hannah would understand just how much he wished to forget his early years and everyone connected with them. Everyone, that is, except her.

Perhaps running into Wooton when he was feeling particularly restless was fortuitous. “You still prop up the bar at the Albatross, Charlie?”

Wooton patted down his pockets, insuring that there were no telltale bulges, then resettled his bowler at a cockier angle. “Not since the proprietor slipped me one of his special cocktails and sold me to that skipper. Why? Thinkin’ of visiting your old friends?”

“Perhaps,” Deegan murmured noncommittally. Since Wooton had seen him in his Nob Hill finery, it wouldn’t do to give prior notice of his return to the Barbary Coast. Although Charlie tried to hide it, there had been a gleam of avarice in the man’s eye as he took in the elegant top hat, starched collar, silk cravat, tailor-made, dove-gray university jacket and charcoal trousers that proclaimed Deegan Galloway a gentleman rather than the rogue he knew himself still to be.

Rather than leave the grocer’s first, Deegan delayed, pretending to linger over the rolling of a cigarette. Wooton was barely out the door when he tossed the smoke away and trailed after the pickpocket, making sure that his former associate didn’t follow him to either his seldom-visited office or his posh bachelor’s quarters at the Palace Hotel. The fewer people who could connect Digger O’Rourke, boy songsmith and pickpocket, to Deegan Galloway, well-to-do society dandy, the better.

Seeing Wooton brought back memories of the old days. In particular, memories of Hannah McMillan and all Deegan owed her.

He would be risking his recently acquired respectability in visiting her; taking a chance that his former felonious associates would recognize him, or worse, that the more reckless of his newfound friends on the Hill would hail him as Galloway while looking for a dose of sin in the Coast. Digger O’Rourke might have been game for any adventure, but the Deegan Galloway he had become was a far steadier fellow.

Or so he hoped.

And yet an hour later Deegan stood in the heart of the Barbary Coast, admittedly prowling for trouble, the itch to encounter and best danger again too strong for him to ignore. He paused at the junction of Sansome and Jackson Streets to stare down the narrow gap between soot-stained buildings to the ill-kept house where Trusty O’Rourke, Hannah and he had kept rooms two decades earlier. The building where Hannah still lived.

Restlessness had brought him back to his roots, but now unease over how Hannah would greet him kept him cooling his heels in the street, leery of taking the steps needed to enter the building and climb the stairs to Hannah’s place. He had left without saying goodbye, simply stealing away one night, taking with him what cash Trusty hadn’t drunk or gambled away. A week later, Deegan was still considering where to go when he heard Trusty had taken a knife in the ribs, his sudden death leaving Hannah alone and unprotected. Deegan had pinched a banker’s weighty wallet and sent Hannah the funds the lift had provided. Then, rather than return to the Coast, he’d shaken the dust of San Francisco’s streets from his clothes. He’d provided more than enough money for her to follow his example fifteen years ago and leave, but Hannah had remained.

How would she look? As beautifully shaped and cheerful as he remembered her? Or worn and haggard like so many of the women who had been forced to sell their bodies to live? At least he’d given her the chance at a different kind of life, even if she hadn’t taken it.

Still hesitating, Deegan rocked back on his heels and nearly lost his balance as a whirlwind in brown wool rounded the corner and plowed into him.

The woman cast a frantic glance back over her shoulder, then turned, clutching at his forearm with one hand, her nails driving deep into the thick fabric of his sleeve. “Help me,” she gasped. “A man…”

His arm closed naturally around her small waist, steadying her as he looked down into a pair of eyes as luminous and bright as moon-washed waves. They searched his face, fearful and yet oddly trusting.

He’d probably regret this the rest of his life, Deegan decided, but he couldn’t resist the plea in her voice. Or the promise of a brush with danger that he sensed in her plight.

His eyes glinting with excitement, Deegan tightened his grip around her. “Hush, darlin’,” he cautioned, and swept her inside the narrow gap between the buildings.

Chapter Two

The image of Belle Tauber’s murderer’s face burned in Lilly’s mind, blinding her to all else. He had looked up, seen her watching in the shadows, and then…

Everything she had done since that frightening moment was a blur. She had no idea where her panicked flight had led her, only that the strong arm now encircling her was warm and comforting, as was the calm, sensible tone of her unknown rescuer’s voice.

She began questioning the wisdom of running trustingly into his care when he deftly tipped her off her feet, silencing her natural yelp of alarm by clasping his hand gently over her lips.

“Shh,” he ordered, his tone light.

The lilt in his voice made him sound amused, a reaction so foreign to her own that Lilly found herself gawking at him.

“Good girl,” he murmured, lowering her, and the awkward bulk of her camera, to the ground behind a rickety pile of shipping crates.

Fear alone kept her quiet. She knew Belle’s assailant had seen her. If he hadn’t been temporarily hobbled with the dead prostitute’s body, he would have caught up with her. As it was, she had heard the quick staccato of his running footsteps following almost before she was out of the alley.

Mere seconds had passed since then, and here she was in yet another alley, prone, breathless and more frightened than she had ever been before in her life. Only this man with the lilting voice stood between her and certain death.

Leaning casually back against the grimy brick building across from her refuge, the man ignored her presence and took the makings of a cigarette from the inner pocket of his coat.

A heartbeat later, Belle’s murderer skidded to a halt in the mouth of the alleyway. It would take only the edge of her skirt, the toe of her shoe, the end of a tripod leg left in view to tip him off to her present location. There hadn’t been enough time to guarantee that she was completely hidden. Peering between the packing crates, she had an excellent view of her stalker. Far too excellent. If she hadn’t recalled each of his features in detail already, they were certainly imprinted on her mind now as harsh, lean and dangerous.

Lilly’s rescuer barely glanced up at Belle’s murderer before returning to his occupation, creasing a tobacco paper with finicky care.

“Hey,” the killer called, turning away from Lilly’s blind to face the loitering man. “You see a woman run this way?”

“A woman, is it?” her rescuer asked, his voice thickened with an Irish brogue. “And would she be a pretty one?”

The killer’s eyebrows closed over the bridge of his nose in irritation. “Hell,” he spat, and glanced both ways along the outer street before peering deep into the dimness of the alleyway.

Lilly resisted the inclination to shrink back, fearing any movement on her part would draw his attention. With his eyes burning with fury, it was quite easy to believe him one of Satan’s soldiers sent to claim her soul.

“She had on dark-colored clothing,” he said, “and was probably carrying an unwieldy contraption of some kind. If she wasn’t running, she’d be breathing heavily.”

“Ah,” the Irishman sighed appreciatively. “That’s just the way I like a woman—breathing heavily.” He tapped tobacco into the prepared paper. “But runnin’ now—perhaps if you treated the sweet lass better she might stay put, b’hoy.”

“Did you or didn’t you see her, Paddy?” the lanky man snapped.

Unfazed by the other’s impatience, Lilly’s rescuer licked the edge of his cigarette paper to seal his smoke. “Sadly, no,” he said.

The killer exhaled a word in frustration, the crudeness of it causing Lilly’s cheeks to flush brightly. She breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when he stalked off.

“Careful,” the Irishman cautioned as she stirred. He struck a match against the side of the building, then bent his head and cupped his hands around his cigarette as he lit it. “He’s still on the street looking for you,” he said between puffs, his voice low and stripped of the distinctive brogue. “I’ll let you know when the coast is clear. For now why not stop holding your breath and breathe again, darlin’.”

“Thank you,” Lilly whispered.

“De nada,” he said.

The softly spoken Spanish phrase was soothing, although he’d tossed it off lightly. Relaxing slightly, Lilly studied him as he blew a set of perfect smoke rings. His stance, as well as the unconcerned expression he wore, made him appear as if he hadn’t a care in the world. She envied him that.

As befit an angel of deliverance, he was an extremely good-looking man, his features masculine but with a cast that was more pleasant than rugged. Even in repose he looked like a man who smiled often. His hair was as tawny as a lion’s coat and was cut neatly, which meant that, despite the rough look of his clothing, he was a newcomer to this part of the city. In the weeks she’d been visiting the Barbary Coast, Lilly had become quite accustomed to the unkempt appearance of the men she saw. Although she suspected there were those of the upper echelon who frequented the area, they were rarely seen during the afternoon hours when she was there. Outside of Reverend Isham, whom she had seen from a distance preaching on the street, the only well-groomed men were professional gamblers, and their neat clothing was frequently shiny with use.

This man was different. Not only were his clothes neatly mended, they looked too clean to have been in his possession long, the wrinkles acquired from careless folding rather than wearing. He had probably bought them in one of the many used clothing shops near the wharves.

His scuffed boots and battered felt hat were different, having the distinctive appearance of items worn by a single person over a period of time. Particularly the hat. There was personality in the hand-shaped curve of the wide brim as it rode low over his eyes, shadowing his face from closer observation. Thick, dundreary whiskers and a mustache, a deeper shade than his fair hair, masked his lower face, allowing little but the quirky set of his mouth to be seen.

Although she couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, Lilly thought them dark and ever alert. Despite the angle of his hat, she saw that his eyes followed the movements of Belle’s killer as he combed the street for news of the runaway witness to his crime. The fact that the man’s movements were under her rescuer’s calm gaze was as comforting as a cup of sweet, hot tea. Lilly felt her racing heart settle to a more normal pace.

“Uncommonly fond lover you’ve got there, sweetheart,” the Irishman murmured.

“Lover!” Lilly gasped.

“Shh. The bloke’ll hear your dulcet tones for sure,” he said.

“He’s not my lover,” Lilly whispered hotly. “He’s a killer.”

The man drew on his cigarette. “I don’t doubt it.” He didn’t sound convinced, though.

“I saw him murder a girl,” Lilly said.

“Indeed? Then you’d better shush or you won’t be any luckier than she, darlin’. He’s comin’ back this way,” the man cautioned.

Lilly froze for what felt like an eternity. The sounds of carts and horses mixed with the varied footfalls of passersby, the traffic making the earth beneath her cheek tremble slightly. Out of the sun, the January air was cooler, almost biting, and definitely uncomfortable. Lilly wished she’d worn warmer clothing, or added her chesterfield rather than leave it behind. As time dragged on she discovered further discomforts—she was lying on her bulky satchel of plate holders and was clutching the box of her camera so tightly that one particularly sharp corner of it dug painfully into her ribs. Afraid to move, Lilly closed her eyes and prayed.

Deegan took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed the still-burning nub away. The unhappy looking fellow who’d chased the little wren into his arms had given up and retreated to a saloon to find surcease in a bottle or the arms of another woman. Although the man had a villainous enough face to be the killer the wren insisted he was, Deegan had his doubts. The gent had certainly put a scare in her.

Despite that, she was a game little bird. He hadn’t heard a peep from her in the past ten minutes. Not an easy deed if her heart was pumping as fast as his was. But while hers was tripping along with fear, his was fueled by adrenaline—the very thing of which he’d come in search. Although the euphoria was fading now, his smile of elation was impossible to restrain.

Like a regular Saint George, he’d rescued a damsel from her dragon using nothing more than a bit of quick thinking and guile. So what if the adventure had been brief and harmless in nature? If the dally-man meant to find this little hen, he no doubt would later. She was a free agent at the moment, though, and Deegan realized he had no idea what she looked like. Or how appreciative she might be for his timely rescue.

Since her pursuer had taken his search elsewhere, it was time to find out.

Deegan pushed away from the wall and silently covered the few yards to her hiding place. As far as he could see, she hadn’t changed her position since he’d lowered her behind the crates. Granted, the area was narrow and even the smallest movement would have disturbed the packing cases, but he was still amazed that she could stay so still for so long, considering the spirit she’d displayed while hissing at him earlier. She’d certainly sounded affronted that he took her pursuer to be her lover. More likely the chump had been a relative using strong-arm methods in an attempt to tame her. It would be a pity when he succeeded.

It wasn’t any of his business, Deegan decided. He’d done his part in delaying the inevitable. The women of the Barbary Coast broke sooner or later. He’d watched it happen with Hannah and others while growing up. If it wasn’t through abuse by their men, it was through their love for those same undeserving fellows.

This was not the day the wren bowed to that reality.

Deegan plucked aside a couple of the empty crates and hunkered down next to her. She seemed frozen in place, the awkward bulk of a camera held tightly to her breast and her eyes squeezed tightly shut, her lashes creating neat chestnut crescents above her flushed cheeks. The hem of her brown skirt was flipped up, showing him a pair of sturdy laced boots and a glimpse of shapely, stockinged calf, the display a result of their haste in hiding her earlier.

“He’s gone,” Deegan said softly.

Her eyes flew open, allowing him another glance of their alluring pastel-blue shading. “Truly?” she whispered.

“Truly,” he assured her. One after another, Deegan pried her fingers free from the camera.

She didn’t seem aware of his actions. She turned her head, letting her cheek press into the gravel again as she peered out at the street to verify the accuracy of his words. Seeing that he spoke the truth, she melted with relief, a sigh that was part sob escaping her lips. “Thank you.”